The Boy Martyr; Or, Manfresti's Page. A Story of 1567

(I'm officially hard at work on Book II.  Hooray! From time to time, I'll provide some glimpses of the Victorian novels I'm reading.) 

The Boy Martyr; Or, Manfresti's Page (1880s) is, in most respects, a representative example of the average  Victorian anti-Catholic novel--this time, explicitly for children.  Published by the staunchly evangelical John F. Shaw, the novel takes place in sixteenth-century Naples, shortly after the accession of Pope Pius V.  The hero, young Guilo, is an orphan and pageboy to the nobleman Victor di Manfresti, who is staunchly Catholic but "still scarcely approved" (6) of the Inquisition.  Guilo's grandmother introduces him to Alberto, who was converted to Protestantism in Germany and is now covertly evangelizing his countrymen; alas, Alberto mysteriously disappears, most likely into the deep, dark dungeons of the Inquisition.  While meeting Alberto proves good for Guilo's soul in the long term, in the short term it results in exile from Manfresti's household and imprisonment in the aforementioned deep, dark dungeons of the Inquisition, thanks to the very icky Father Doria.  Bad things happen to Guilo, but before he dies, he converts Manfresti.  While being converted by Guilo proves good for Manfresti's soul in the long term, in the short term it results in his execution for heresy.  Apparently, nothing happens to the very icky Father Doria, but presumably he is destined for a somewhat toastier final location than Guilo, Alberto, grandma, or Manfresti.

As is often the case with Victorian religious literature, what separates children's fiction from adult fiction is more complexity than content.  The Boy Martyr features several standard-issue topoi of anti-Catholic fiction in general and anti-Catholic historical fiction in particular: the covert Bible reading scene; a conversion scene; the Protestant "good death" (two of them), in which the dying Christian witnesses to the onlooker; the physically weak Protestant whose faith allows him or her to resist psychological and bodily suffering; a child who successfully evangelizes adults; the emotionally disordered Catholic priest; and, since this is a historical novel, martyrdom.  Like much anti-Catholic historical fiction, this novel participates in a larger nostalgia for an age of enthusiastic martyrs. (There are also a couple of truly bizarre continuity glitches, like the sudden appearance of Guilo's faithful canine companion in the dungeon--never seen before, never to be seen again--and the mysterious "papers" that Guilo leaves for Manfresti.)  Moreover, as in adult fiction, the novelist relies heavily on affect to make his (her?) theological point.  We know that Guilo will be saved because of his extreme emotional sensitivity and yearning for love, which, when coupled with a wholehearted willingness to put his faith in Christ, grants him unheard-of strength and charity. We know that Manfresti will also be saved because, despite his stern opposition to heretics, he loves Guilo and is already capable of mercy.  Finally, we know that Father Doria very likely will not be saved, because he is sadistic, "avaricious" (88), and completely insensible to Guilo's youth, innocence, gentleness, and beauty.  It doesn't help that Father Doria shreds a New Testament. 

What's noteworthy about the novel, though, is its relatively graphic violence.*  Our first introduction to Manfresti includes his intention to whip Guilo for an infraction.  Later, when Father Doria confronts Guilo about the illicit New Testament, he "strik[es] him severely across the shoulders with the heavy cane he carried" (49-50), then "again strik[es] him a heavy blow upon the forehead, which raised the skin, and caused the blood to flow freely, so fiercely and strongly he struck..." (51-52)  The priest threatens Guilo with "rack and the fire" if he fails to renounce his heresy (54); when Guilo is arrested, he is bound and gagged, so that the "cords cut into his flesh, the steel wounded his mouth, and blood streamed from it freely as they lifted him up, and carried him whither he knew not" (76).  Finally, after racking Gulio so that he lies "senseless and bleeding" (85), the Inquisitors blind him with "hot irons" (90).  The innocent child quite literally bears the weight of the novel's anti-Catholic polemic: the Church reveals its perverted nature in the act of battering and defacing a helpless body.  Indeed, in destroying Gulio's New Testament (which is illustrated in the frontispiece), Father Doria prefigures his willingness to destroy Gulio himself.  Once the veneer of theological argument fails, the Church acts out its moral depravity in moments of spectacular violence; in an irony so central to anti-Catholic literature, the Church's bureaucratic power collapses like a sandcastle when faced with individual acts of spiritual resistance.  For, after all, the deaths of Gulio and Manfresti are not defeats, but victories: as the novelist says of Manfresti, who occupies the novel's final spotlight, "He had gone to everlasting happiness; he had gone to realize that fulness of joy which has not entered into the heart of man to conceive, in the heavenly kingdom of his Saviour Christ" (96).   

*--Nineteenth-century Protestant fiction went through sporadic spasms of detailed brutality, which then subsided again into more genteel representations of suffering.  Many novelists dropped the curtain, as it were, on both torture and martyrdom.  In some cases, torture scenes could be justified by reference to John Foxe; for example, Rose Allin's brief trial by fire proved popular with religious novelists of all stripes. 

Comments

[perilla]

Yay on being officially hard at work on Book II!

[Marya]

So interesting. Do you find also that the religious context makes the violence safe for kids in some way? When I was working on medievalism I was getting the idea that historical narratives and travel narratives were a way for virtuous kids to get some of the thrills and chills available in penny dreadfuls without the stigma of blood for blood's sake.